


Heart in a cage

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes people just sleep together because they want to get laid. Stiles worries about this and everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart in a cage

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this through the first season, somewhere in-between episodes 8-10. I mostly ignore canon that doesn't bend to my whims. This happens somewhere in the hand-wavy future. I have not seen any of Season 3. This is my first fic in this fandom. God bless. Con-crit, pointing out typos always welcome. Pretty sure I stole this title from a Strokes song, which is. Special. I have not read much in the way of Teen Wolf fan fiction, so I have no idea if I’m stepping into every major trope that exists, probably am. 
> 
> Thanks so much to sapphire2309 for the speedy read-through! I fiddled and futzed around with this fic after she fixed it, so all typos and messiness are my fault. 
> 
> Warnings: Underage, maybe. In my head, Stiles is straddling 18, and Derek is - who the hell knows how old. Maybe 21-ish.

Stiles doesn’t even like Derek, not really. Derek’s not the kind of guy you like; he’s complicated, messy, has some serious issues with abandonment and a fucked-up family tree. Stiles respects him sometimes, thinks he’s crazy hot, figures he can count on him in a tight spot unless their interests diverge or Derek has something better to do. 

The point is, he doesn’t know why he asked Derek if he wanted to make out. Maybe he was just looking to get a rise out of him, to joke around like he would with any of his other friends. He’s propositioned all of his friends and some casual acquaintances at least three times each.

He never expected Derek to shrug and say, okay.

 

\---

 

Derek sort of puts Stiles wherever he wants him to be. Stiles doesn’t think he means anything insulting by it, he’d just rather Stiles be at point A rather than point B and shoves, shuffles, sometimes straight-up lifts him and sets him down in a more desirable location based on whatever mystifying criteria Derek’s using at the moment. The complete loss of all sense of personal boundaries, basic societal norms, the shaky moral compass -- Stiles isn't sure if it's the wolf part of Derek, or if he was born this way, or if it's the years spent in self-flagellation and squatting in abandoned buildings like a homeless person. 

“So you’re a little hot,” Stiles says, “whatever. That doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me.”

That’s not true. Saying Derek is a little hot is like saying Kilimanjaro is tallish, or the Arctic is drafty sometimes.

Stiles hasn’t thought about dude on dude action, much -- actually, that’s another lie. He’s a teenager. Hormones and all that. But it’s never been more than idle speculation, a kind of side-long glance at another guy in the locker room and a _hey, he’s pretty decent looking, I’d probably tap that._

But with Derek caging his body in, Derek nuzzling his neck, too-sharp teeth at his pulse, Stiles thinks, _Definitely, yeah._

 

\---

 

Kissing Derek Hale is the best thing ever, better than making first string on the Lacrosse team, better than the one time his dad said he was proud of him.

Then Derek’s undoing his zipper, hand stealing down the front of his jeans.

Second best thing, Stiles amends.

 

\---

 

Third best thing. 

 

\---

 

Derek accosts him outside of school, the grocery store, the library. Anywhere with an uncomfortable wall -- he’s been pressed against it and licked and nipped by Derek, until every place holds a sense-memory for him and Stiles gets a hard-on just by looking at a brick wall.

 

\---

 

Stiles is in way over his head. It’s not an entirely new feeling, but it isn’t any more pleasant this time around than it was the first million times.

He doesn’t know what he was thinking. Like, in his head he was some kind of badass, or badass by proxy, being surrounded by people that could tear out his throat as easily as ripping open a paper bag. It’s not entirely his fault that he has this overly unwarranted can-do attitude. A lot of times, he’s swooped in at the last minute and saved the day (scuttled in, helped out a little). 

It’s like he’s attracted to hopeless situations. If Scott wasn’t in his life, Stiles would be the king of bad ideas.

He has learned one valuable lesson, though: you don’t experiment, you know, _sexually_ , with a werewolf. 

Stiles is screwed in every possible meaning of the word. He has no clue at all what to do, not even a vague idea. For all that he’s seen, all that he’s done, he’s irrevocably reminded that at the end of the day he’s just a fucked up kid with a dead mom.

 

\---

 

“So,” his dad says, “you and Derek Hale?”

Stiles licks his lips nervously. “H-how did you find out?”

His dad looks pained. “You haven’t exactly been subtle. The library? Really? There were _children_ around.”

“I’m hugely uncomfortable with this conversation,” Stiles says.

“Be careful with him, he’s older than you--”

“Pretty much the most uncomfortable I have ever been in my entire life,” Stiles mumble“Including the time Scott and I talked about mating rituals.”

“Did you say ‘mating’?”

“Ah, no,” Stiles says quickly. “Got the gist -- be careful, don’t get knocked up. Thanks, dad. Good talk.”

 

\---

 

He should talk to Scott about this, because they’re best friends, that’s what best friends are for and he’s listened to Scott moan about Allison for about a billion years. 

He doesn’t even know where to begin. 

 

\---

 

Derek’s pulling on his clothes and Stiles takes a moment to mourn the loss of the spectacular view, then says, voice high and mocking, “Thanks, that was great, Stiles. You’re a peach.”

Derek just looks at him like he’s crazy.

 

\---

 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Derek.”

“We haven’t been fooling around or anything,” Stiles says, perhaps, in hindsight, a bit too hastily.

“Oh yeah, _that_ ,” Scott says. “I was wondering when you were going to tell me.”

“What do you mean--”

“I could smell him on you,” Scott says absently, restringing his Crosse. 

“Jesus Christ, you could smell it--” Stiles says, closing his eyes. Could Scott smell what they did together? _Of course, stupid_ , his mind answers.

“Your heart rate goes up when anyone talks about Derek.”

A terrible suspicious is dawning on him. “So when I talk about your mom--”

“Let’s never talk about that,” Scott says.

“Right,” Stiles agrees.

 

\----

 

Stiles says, “It’s nothing serious, we’re just screwing around.”

Scott asks, “Does Derek know that?”

 

\---

 

“We should talk,” Stiles wheezes, out of breath. He doubts sex with a werewolf was what coach had in mind when he said Stiles needed to work on his cardio, but whatever works. His game is improving.

Derek shoots him a dark look, which shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. 

“Not one for pillow talk, I take it,” Stiles says, pretending not to be a little hurt. He rolls over on his belly, wallows a little bit, feeling tired, loose-limbed and fucked out. A slight post-orgasmic buzz hums under his skin. He reaches out blindly for Derek and runs a hand through his short hair, relishing the near uncomfortable warmth of his skin, the damp hair beneath his palm. 

Beside him, Derek shifts, brings his mouth to his neck, rubs his jaw, covered in rough stubble, over his nape and --

“Ow, fuck. Did you -- did you bite me?” Stiles asks, raising up to glare half-heartedly at Derek, who grins, predatory and lazy, and completely unapologetic. “Watch the teeth,” he says.

Derek hums happily, bends down and licks at Stiles' neck. This is troubling behavior, Stiles knows. He recognizes it from the frankly horrifying and awkward conversations he’s had with Scott about werewolf mating rituals, but still. He cranes his neck a little to give Derek better access, feels his eyes roll back at the slight scrape of teeth and tongue against his pulse. 

He meant to talk this shit out, to figure out what they’re doing exactly, what the parameters are. Instead he asks, “Wanna fuck again?”

“Always,” Derek rasps against his neck.

“Excellent,” Stiles says. And it is.

 

\---

 

If it’s possible to both under-think and over-think a situation, Stiles probably is. Mixed-up metaphors aside, when Derek’s going down on him, fingering him open, pressing sweat-slick kisses over his belly, his hips, Stiles doesn’t think beyond, _oh fuck_ and _yes, that_. 

Afterwards, he realizes how stupid he’s being. He’s sleeping with Derek Hale. Derek, who is going to break his heart. Not maybe, definitely. This is going to hurt later, possibly both literally and figuratively. 

But it feels good now.

 

\---

 

He could be bisexual, it actually doesn’t matter to him as much as it should. He’s sampled too small a part of the population to be sure and Derek’s too hot not to skew the results anyway. Elderly monks would probably be attracted to Derek. 

Mostly, he just wants to know what this thing between them is, how long it’s going to continue. 

When to say goodbye.

 

\---

 

Derek’s not a lets-talk-our-feelings-out sort of guy. To be fair, most men aren’t. Even Stiles is more of a quiet nervous breakdown kind of guy. The thoughts that come out of his mouth are only distantly related to the things he’s thinking, though both are a near constant stream. But when Derek asks, “What about college?”, Stiles can’t help but read something into it, because a) Derek’s asking about the future, specifically, Stiles’ future, and b) Derek rarely bothers to talk at all when glares and angry grunts will do. If Derek’s actually forming whole sentences to ask about it, it means he’s been thinking about it a lot.

Stiles says, “Don’t know,” when he means, Yes, of course. 

For a brief moment, he thinks, he _knows_ he sees flash of loss across Derek’s face, but then it’s gone and he doesn’t know what to say that won’t be a lie.

He pulls Derek closer to him, lets him smell him in the creepy-sexy way he has, runs his hands all over him, trying to memorize the hard, unforgiving planes of his body.

 

\---

 

“So are you like, mates or something?” Scott asks.

Stiles feels a deep flush on his neck, the backs of his ears. “Fuck off with that.”

They’re something more than nothing, and a little bit less than something. Stiles doesn’t know, and he’s so tired of thinking about it, he’s not sure he gives a shit anymore.

 

\---

 

The hours right before a thunderstorm leave Stiles jittery, on edge. He can feel it in the air, the metallic taste lingers on the tip of his tongue. The hairs on the back of his arms prickle, stand on end and he has to resist the urge to duck and run for cover. 

When the storm passes and the sky is clear and blue, he’ll wonder what he was so afraid of. 

 

\---

 

Derek fucks like a beast this close to the full moon, with a low growl in his chest and hands possessively curled around Stile’s hips. He licks and bites everywhere. 

The first time he grabs Stiles’ hand and presses a kiss to his palm is disconcerting. He must hear the stutter of Stile’s heartbeat, must notice the way Stiles rubs his palm afterwards curiously, like he can feel the press of lips and canines hours later, burned into his skin.

 

\---

 

Stiles is curled up on Derek's horrible mattress with his laptop, writing an essay for English, looking up information on Indo-European lycanthropy mythology for Scott, making a list of which second-tier colleges to apply to, coming up with a week's worth of heart-healthy menu options for his dad, and wondering what new horrors await the rest of senior year, when the answer comes to him.

Not everything needs an explanation, a clear cut resolution. This is life and he’s here with Derek right now, not tomorrow and not a year from now. Not all situations require a road map and a plan of attack -- some things are better for not knowing where they end.

They can be this, Stiles knows, suddenly, exhilaratingly. They can be whatever the hell they want to be.

He snaps his laptop shut with a click, feels himself relax bone by bone, muscle by muscle, tension and worry leeching out to give way to a blissful nothing. His world narrows to the present. 

Stiles looks down at the incredible gleam of Derek’s eyes, the small smile that looks more like a grimace on his perpetually unimpressed, ridiculously handsome face, and thinks, _finally._

 

 

 

The end.


End file.
